


Prelude, or “Angel, Your Sword Is On Fire”

by My_Good_Omens_Hackverse



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:55:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24486223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Good_Omens_Hackverse/pseuds/My_Good_Omens_Hackverse
Summary: Hell sends Crowley to Eden to corrupt Adam and Eve, but someone more interesting is waiting for him there.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Prelude, or “Angel, Your Sword Is On Fire”

**Author's Note:**

> Written in the present tense because at first it was meant to be a script.  
> Sorry for any misspellings and weird punctuation!  
> Thank you for reading!  
> Fun fact: all angels in Night Vale are named Ericka 🙃

Here we are in Hell, in Beelzebub’s office. The time is Too Late, which right now means just a little after Creation.

Beelzebub has just finished a large pile of vitally important work; they have arranged a mass of clay tablets onto their desk into a precariously stacked, impossibly complex shape, involving many dimensions. It’s taken them almost 100 years and one disposable demon holding up a corner, but it’s finally done and they are immensely proud.

A demon (ultimately known as Crowley, at which point he will be formerly known as Crawley) saunters in, late for his meeting. Meetings in Hell for Crowley are excruciating by vice of who he works for, so whenever he can he skips the usual formal unpleasantries (knocking, small animal sacrifice, self flagellation, etc.).

“Sit,” says Beelzebub. Crowley’s choices are a chair with something very large and pointy sticking out of the seat, or one that is taken by a puddle of sludge sprouting a lot of arms. He tries casually leaning against Beelzebub’s desk and jostles it just enough to startle Eric, who, for the last 99 years or so, was only one jostle away from dropping his corner of Beelzebub’s creation and collapsing the whole thing. Sympathy is absolutely against policy in Hell, but Crowley kicks the nearest chair (the spiked one) towards the disposable demon and quickly turns away before he can witness any carnage. 

“You wanted to see me, Lord?” asks Crowley,  grinning. 

Beelzebub glares at him (acts of kindness, even those with unpleasant side effects, make them break into a rash in the most secret of places, and what the Heaven is Crowley smiling at, anyway?). “Hail Satan,” they hiss. Not taking their eyes off Crowley, Beelzebub smoothly removes a tablet from the colossus on the desk. The rest of the tablets don’t dare move. Crowley and Eric are impressed.

Beelzebub begins to read from the slab in a bored, toneless rush meant to discourage coherent thought. “You are hereby issued one scabrous body of flesh, blood, bone, etc. to use in whatever form you see fit in order to expediently and with malice carry out the will of our Lord and Master cursed be His name sign here.” Beelzebub turns the tablet toward Crowley and points at several tiny spaces. “And here. Sign twice here. Date here. No, use yesterday's date. And again over here…”

As Crowley finishes scratching what looks less and less like his sigil (including once “accidentally” over and obliterating the word ‘scabrous’ - he’s not a fan of scabs and lesions), the tablet erupts into a small fireball and disappears. The floor shakes and Beelzebub hears a muffled obscenity, which tells them that the document has been painfully received by the Demonic Department of Contracts and Doorstops (or possibly by the Heavy Objects Authority across the hall. Accurate filing in Hell is a punishable offense, after all.). 

“And His will  in this case  is what, exactly? ” asks Crowley .

Beelzebub gazes at Crowley, lost in a pleasant dream of banishing him to the darkest, dampest, smelliest neck fold of the nearest pit troll. They push the idea away, reluctantly. It’s time will come... soon. “I’m getting to that,” says Beelzebub whose strangely calm tone makes Crowley’s skin crawl and then crawl faster as Beelzebub screeches for their file lord, “DAGON!”

Dagon marches in followed by three disposable demons, each struggling with armloads of clay tablets which they deposit unceremoniously on Beelzebub’s already overflowing desk. Crowley jumps out of the way just in time to avoid being buried. All eyebrows raise in unison as mayhem ensues – violently. The multi dimensional house of tablets (including its Eric) is now gone, the force of its implosion creating a vortex that sucked the whole thing into some parallel universe or other. Dagon is thrilled to see that somehow their report has survived. Before the dust settles,Beelzebub side-eyes Dagon’s Erics and two of them vanish in a belch of foul smelling gas. Somewhere close by, a pit troll hungrily digs through its neck folds in search of a snack. It finds two.

Beelzebub continues as if nothing has happened. “Infernal Intelligence has learned that God has given her latest creation, ‘Earth,’ to mortal beings called ‘humans. Everything you need to know is here,” they say, nodding toward the catastrophe on their desk, even as several more tablets fall peevishly to the floor.

Dagon, the proud excreter of this report announces, a little too loudly, “They’re in God’s image!”

“What,” asks Crowley incredulously “God-shaped mortals?’

“With free will!” Says Dagon, who always enjoys knowing more than everyone else. “ _Totally_ unprecedented. Something’s clearly afoot. I have charts and diagrams that show...”

Beelzebub stops Dagon with a look that could make (and has on at least on occasion) an angel’s wings spontaneously molt. Fortunately for Dagon and Crowley, the remaining disposable demon hadn’t quite made it to the door, and, being disposable, is out of luck. His sudden sublimation returns the barometric pressure in the room to nearly bearable while Dagon furtively drops their visual aides onto the remaining chair, which squelches in protest.

“Your job,” Beelzebub says testily to Crowley “is to make sure humans ‘freely’ choose to follow Satan. It’ll give Hell an advantage in whatever game God is playing at.”

Crowley shrugs, “That shouldn’t be too hard.”

“There’s gong to be eight billion of them,” blurts Dagon,  unable to help themself.  “Give or take.”

Beelzebub  smirk s at Crowley’s poorly stifled choke and they are remind ed why they keep Dagon around. They check a tablet. “Calm down, idiot,” they say to Crowley. “As of today there are only two ‘humans.’”

Beelzebub isn’t really trying to to reassure Crowley. They want him to believe that this task is important, but easy. He is the perfect choice for this assignment, in Beelzebub’s opinion: cocky, easily distracted, and not overly ambitious. Beelzebub will take the credit if Crowley succeeds (which he might, at first), and they will take great pleasure at ending Crowley’s existence when he fails (which he will, eventually).

They watch impatiently as Dagon piles tablets into Crowley’s arms, quickly overwhelming him, which doesn’t stop Dagon from adding more. Beelzebub wills themself to slowly physically expand and contract – a corporeal gesture humans would recognize as a sigh.

“I do hope you’ve read these, ”  says Dagon  officiously, never mind the fact  that  they were written yesterday . “Who knows how fast these  beings reproduce and Heaven already has angels  on site,  filling their heads with holy nonsense. ”

“Fantastic,” says a disembodied voice that is probably  Crowley’s. It sounds like him, but he’s  hidden behind the mountain of tablets in his arms, so it’s  difficult to tell .  “Can someone,  er, point me toward the door?”

Crowley can feel Beelzebub’s swirling, bilious aura envelope him as they approach. “Satan has taken a personal interest in this. But don’t worry,” Beelzebub purrs, their voice like acidic honey, “not even you could bugger it up.”

_______________

Soon after leaving Hell, Crowley takes his first steps on Earth. He stands outside the wall of Eden, squinting.He looks around at everything; it’s all so new, it still has that new planet smell. Sand. Wall. The names of each object are in his mind like they’ve always been there. It’s as if God has left her catalogue of Creation lying open for anyone to peruse. The star overhead – the sun \- is too bright, but its backdrop - the sky \- is a rich, depthless blue; a gaudy jewel on an endless celestial robe. The clouds range from wispy and white to round billowy things the color of lead. A breath of a breeze flirts with Crowley’s dark red curls, and then is still. Nothing else moves. The sand that he stirs with a curious toe is fine and soft and hot. Not Hell-hot, but he’s aware of the soft skin on his bare feet thinking seriously about inventing blisters. 

Crowley looks up at the wall. Is it meant to keep him out? It doesn’t look like anything more than a carefully composed pile of rocks. Or is it there to keep what’s inside in? He walks all the way around until he’s back where he started. He finds no way in and he meets no one. Odd. He puts a hand on the wall, testing the rough surface against his fingers. “I hope whatever’s inside is a lot more exciting than this,” he says to himself as he rises on black-feathered wings. 

He has no idea.

Crowley stands on top of the rampart, arms hanging at his sides (pockets haven’t been invented yet). What’s inside the wall appears to be a huge garden. Its air is perfumed by a million flowers; a noisy stream of crystalline water rushes over smooth rocks; and there are plants and trees of every size and shade of green. Not bad, but Crowley has seen better. It’s a big universe, after all. The only movementis in a clearing at the garden’s center where he can see a tree and an angel and, what Crowley assumes are two humans. 

Crowley had been afraid he wouldn’t be  able to tell angels, (er, angel -  there’s only one), from humans, but he can spot at least one big difference: humans are wingless. And without flaming weaponry, apparently.

Crowley sits on the edge of the wide parapet. He leans back on the heels of his palms, while the heels of his feet bounce lightly against the wall. He watches the angel try to tell the humans how important it is to stay away from the tree – The Tree of Knowledge, according to the angel – without being too stern about it. Unfortunately, the angel’s gentle tone is at odds with his sword which is rather aggressively on fire. “Could never accuse Heaven of being understated,” thinks Crowley. The angel’s attempts to wield the sword at first conversationally, and then apologetically aren’t helping. The humans (Adam and Eve, as if we don’t know) have to occasionally duck (often in unison) to avoid major injury while also trying to appear politely attentive. 

Many years later, human art depicting scenes like this will show awe-struck humans cowering before powerful, majestic angels. That is not what is happening here. Just the opposite, actually, which  Crowley finds extremely funny. It doesn’t help that he hasn’t had anything to laugh at at all for hundreds of years.  He lies he lplessly  giggling on the wall ,  tears streaming down his face,  hoping no one has heard or seen him.

When he is finally able to sit up again, he sees that the angel is keeping the sword at his side, and that both humans still have all their arms and legs. “Just as well,” thinks Crowley. “If I enjoy myself too much, I won’t want to go home.” 

From the angel’s ardent pleas, vague explanations, and veiled threats, Crowley understands that this tree is a big deal. It’s a nice enough tree, sure, but in Crowley’s opinion much too accessible to anyone not rooted to the ground. “Just like God to dare those she ‘loves’ to fail,” thinks Crowley. But that’s not his problem. All he has to do is convince the humans to eat an apple or two from the tree and let chaos takes its course. A little too easy, really, if he was asked - he could do it with his eyes closed and his wings bound. Not that he would report it that way to Head Office.

His plan of attack more or less in place, Crowley waits for the right moment to approach Adam and/or Eve. He finds he doesn’t mind waiting. Watching the angel is actually a very nice way to… um, pass the time… Erm. “Is it?” He asks himself. It makes Crowley anxious to admit that this angel is way more interesting than anything else he’s seen so far on Earth. The angel had introduced himself to the humans as Aziraphale. Crowley, only half aware of what he’s doing, whispers Aziraphale’s name, just to know what it feels like to say it. Actually he says it several times before self-consciously shutting up.

Too late though, because a supernatural being can always hear his own name as long as he and the speaker are on the same plane of existence. Say the name of any being at all, immortal or doomed, and you’re halfway to summoning them, if you know what you’re doing. On any other day, Crowley knows exactly how this works. 

While talking to Adam and Eve, Aziraphale does hear Crowley, but he can’t quite tell where the voice is coming from. Not from the two humans in front of him, certainly. “Did either of you hear…” he starts to ask, but he knows the answer without having to finish the question. Aziraphale looks around – besides hearing his name he is aware of a slight singed quality to the air that hadn’t been there before, but he can’t pinpoint the source of that, either. He continues “Er,.. as I was saying, there are plenty of other beautiful trees and…”

Meanwhile, Crowley rests his forearms on his knees and looks intently at Aziraphale. Granted, it has been a very, _very_ long time since Crowley has seen an angel, but he remembers them all as being cold-hearted prats. The best of them were arrogant and smug, and the worst could make the things that ooze through the plumbing of the 9th Circle cry.

This angel, though. There is something earnest and…humble about him. The words emerge tentatively, dazed at seeing daylight after so many millennia. Crowley tries to sneer at them, but they will not be cowed. Even physicallyAziraphale looks soft and forgiving. _And_ he’s funny (even if he doesn’t mean to be)! But beyond that, and beyond the crown of platinum curls and guileless eyes whose color stubbornly defies definition, and brilliant smile, and a voice like… um… Right. Beyond those things Crowley realizes the angel embodies something like – what? Benevolence? “Is that a word,” wonders Crowley, having never had anything to attach it to, “or is it something else God just recently made up?” Whatever it is seems to wholly suffuse Aziraphale so that he almost glows. Crowley clamps a hand over his mouth to keep from saying the angel’s name out loud again. He’s too bewitched even to tell himself to get a grip.

None of this makes any sense to Crowley, which would normally irritate him, but now all he feels when he looks at Aziraphale is peace. That is, if by ‘peace’ you mean a racing heart, flushed cheeks, and sweaty palms. Crowley frowns and looks up. “Has the sun come closer,” he wonders. No, the sun is behind a cloud right now, neatly avoiding blame for Crowley’s slight fever which he didn’t have five minutes ago. He swallows, tugs absently at his sleeve, and hopes that the rising tide ofanxiety in his chest will somehow just go away. Poor Crowley.

Just then, Aziraphale finishes lecturing Adam and Eve, and watches them wander away. He turns in Crowley’s direction and Crowley sees his chance to … “to what, fly down and say ‘hello’? Don’t be ridic…” But before he can finish the thought Crowley stands up and spreads his wings. The sun picks this moment to shed its cloud and, from Aziraphale’s point of view, Crowley is suddenly endowed with an uncharacteristic (not to say ironic) full-body halo. Aziraphale stares hard at the figure on the wall. “Is that Gabriel?” he wonders, “Or Michael? Or, Heaven help me, perhaps not an angel at all…?”

Crowley, with a flourish,  bows deeply, at which point  Aziraphale is no longer shielded from the sun and can’t see anything at all. He shades his eyes and  calls out, trying not to sound nervous “Hallo? Who’s there?  Can I… can I help you? ”

But Crowley has second thoughts about revealing himself, and hops down from his perch and into Paradise. He remembers his purpose (with difficulty) and sets off to find Adam and Eve. This doesn’t take too long, as Eve is only a little way off.

Seeing her, Crowley hesitates. Thanks to the appearance of the unexpectedly and maddeningly intriguing angel, Crowley has forgotten his plan (did he ever had one?). He hadn’t considered changing his form, but he can hear Aziraphale nearby and suddenly he feels conspicuous. Maybe a very small, palm-sized version of himself? He could sit on Eve’s shoulder and deliver his temptation from there. No - if she got ahold of him she might discorporate him before he even got started. Imagine explaining that to Beelzebub.

At tha t moment an odd  animal crosses his path. A long, sleek thing ,  vaguely  tube-shaped  and covered with smooth  black and red  scales .  Crowley picks up the snake,  and  peers  at it. The snake, in turn, coolly regards Crowley .  “Huh,“ thinks Crowley,  “it  lacks stature, but there’s a certain charm. Interesting eyes.” And with that,  Crowley’s form dissolves  downward  into  a  very  large version of the creature he had just  been admiring.

He finds a spot on a boulder next to where Eve is sitting and considers his options. He decides to start simply with suggestions, reassurances, and gentle rationales. Kind of a sibilant-heavy performance, thanks to the restrictions of snake anatomy, but Eve seems toget the idea, and before anyone knows it (including Crowley who suddenly wonders quite urgently if an apple wouldn’t be just the thing right now) Eve and Adam are sharing one very crisp and juicy apple from the forbidden tree. 

The reaction from On High is immediate. A series of bone-jarring claps of thunder (an applause of thunder) shakes the garden. Crowley suddenly decides to explore the rest of Eden and crawls as quickly as he can out of sight. Aziraphale, meanwhile is trying to keep his feet as the ground trembles beneath him. He hurries towards The Tree, a constant stream of “oh dear”s and “goodness me”s and such like trailing behind him.

_________________________

After looking around a bit more (carefully avoiding the commotion at The Tree), Crowley is about to call it a day. He’s a little surprised the humans were thrown out of the garden - he hadn’t meant for that to happen - but there’s no help for it now. He considers staying in Eden longer, but the air is disconcertingly fresh (where’s the fog of pulverized slag? The aerosolized rotting flesh with hints of bottomless existential despair?) and there’s no one left to tempt, so he’s headed toward home. In a couple years he’ll be back to work on the next generation of humans, but for now there’s no excuse for him to be here. 

Crowley pauses. If he had been in his original demon form he would have frowned. The humans have made God angry with them, so, point: Hell, but – BUT – they are now unconfined by the walls of Paradise and free to make as many copies of themselves as they want. What if humans areGod’s new army? What if he, Crowley, has just made it possible for God to have a force of – what had Dagon said? – eight billion? Crowley shrugs as best he can without shoulders. “Well”, he thinks, “what’s done is done. Besides, more humans, more job security.”

As he takes one last look around, he sees Aziraphale standing on the wall looking pensively out at the desert. All at once, Crowley finds himself listening to his own soft, sinuous ‘what-if’s and  ‘why-not’s. The mutinous thoughts snake through him and rudely take control (Crowley would deny it, but he really didn’t put up much of a fight). By the time he realizes he’s fallen victim to his own temptation, it’s too late - the snake body is gone and he‘s standing on the wall next to Aziraphale. “Unbelievable,” he thinks. “This can’t be happening.” After a moment, he becomes aware that Aziraphale is looking at him and that he should probably say something. Preferably something clever.

Several minutes earlier….

While Crowley is deciding that introducing himself would be a good idea, Aziraphale is standing on the wall, worrying. His day so far has been a _complete_ nightmare. He had told the humans not to touch The Tree, and then they did it anyway! He couldn’t understand why. Was it this ‘free will’ he had heard so much about? Privately, Aziraphale had not felt that giving humans the ability to choose their own fate to be the best course, but the Almighty hadn’t asked his opinion. And if that wasn’t bad enough, in a fit of irrational sympathy he had given them his sword. Aziraphale furrows his angelic brow (which somehow makes him look even more divine). He always tries with everything he has to do good, but now he’s almost sure he has crossed some sort of Heavenly line. What was it they said about the path to Hell? That it’s paved with angel wings, or… something…. “Free will,” he thinks, “how does that make any sense? Oh, Gabriel will have a lot to say about this. That was probably him I saw on the wall earlier. No, no, Aziraphale, get ahold of yourself. If anyone says anything just remind them there's no way the humans could have survived without help.” None of this makes him feel any better in the slightest.

Nor does the sound of snake scales softly rasping over and onto the wall next to him. Before turning his head Aziraphale wonders what could possibly be next. 

Poor angel.  He has no idea.


End file.
